York's limbs are weak and heavy and slow to respond to his commands but he manages to raise a hand up, reaching out but not for the cup. Instead his fingers pass it to stroke her cheek, and despite feeling clammy skin and fever-heat he smiles, his eyes lighting up. She's here, and alive, and doesn't hate him. Basically everything he could have asked for but all at once, more than he ever dared to hope. He didn't envision this happening while they were both sick, but hey. Nothing's perfect.

"I got your messages," he says, voice rough as he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.